Hero Number Six
by konarciq
Summary: Being a hero is not an easy task. In fact, it can be quite hazardous. Especially when you're just a glorified extra. Written for the SSSW challenge.


**Hero Number Six**

 _(with a fat wink to the poor besieged Crewman Number Six on Galaxy Quest)_

.

I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere - I mean, these studio lots are huge. I had just completed the day's job of getting killed before the first commercial to show how dangerous the situation was for the star crew, and I was on my way home to wife and kids, expecting a nice quiet evening in front of the TV, zapping through the channels in search of my modest contributions to this country's popular culture.

If this sounds puzzling, I don't blame you. Fact is, that I'm one of those guys who dreamt (and still dreams) about becoming a famous actor one day, yet in practice has to settle for being in a different show every week, with minor roles as an inconsequential extra. The kind of character the audience tends to forget the moment they're off-screen.

Though I must say today had been rather special. I got to die on Star Trek. I didn't get to wear a red shirt, but at least my demise was convoluted enough to be memorable, I hope. Memorable enough to perhaps join the stars at the big conventions to sell autographed pictures. We all have to start our ascent on the steep ladder of fame somewhere.

I guess picturing myself (wearing my _blue_ shirt) sitting next to people like William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy in the face of thousands and thousands of adoring fans was what caused the lapse in my concentration in the first place. That is, until I was jerked out of my glorious reverie by two hands grabbing me by the shoulders and whisking me around.

"You there!" the culprit barked. "Have any acting experience?"

I blinked. "Yes, I have," I replied. "Just today I played in Star Trek, and recently I've played in Perry Mason, and Twelve O'Clock High, Rawhide..."

I was cut off. "Good. Follow me." Not that he gave me much choice - I was literally dragged along corridors and on outside. We ended up in a bare lot with some dilapidated wooden barracks. The area was surrounded by woodland that was turning black in the quickly fading daylight. But judging by the many spotlights and floodlights mounted everywhere, obviously the filming here wasn't done for the day yet.

"Mr. Feldmaus!" my hustler called, and the next moment I faced a skinny man with a blue baseball cap that said 'Producer'.

"I found someone for the part, Mr. Feldmaus," my escort announced.

Mr. Feldmaus gave me a quick once over and nodded. "He'll do. Get him some clothes and then take him over to make-up. You'll be Hero Number Six," he added to me. And then he was gone.

Now I had no idea what movie or TV show I was going to be on, but being promoted from a dying nobody to a hero is a big step forward in an acting career! Even if I was only going to be Hero Number Six, at least I was going to be a hero. People were going to remember me. And my kids would finally have something to brag about to their friends.

So I was more than happy to follow the guy that had scouted me, and believe me when I say I was literally glowing, wearing one of those silly grins on my face that reach from ear to ear - and I'm not kidding!

So, next thing I knew I got outfitted with some kind of khaki army uniform with a bloody hot bomber's jacket to go over it. I believe I was a sergeant, but I'm not all that up-to-date with all the military insignia, so don't give me a hard time if I got that wrong. The make-up lady did an excellent job in bringing out the doelike quality of my eyes (my best feature, if I may say so myself), and she had barely finished her job when a voice called out over the general ruckus.

"Where the hell is Hero Number Six!"

I jumped up. "Coming!" Surely you didn't think I was going to let _anything_ foul up my big chance at being a hero! "Here I am!" I reported to Mr. Feldmaus.

"Ah, good. Then we can get started."

He already turned away (a producer's life is a stressful one, I assure you), but I quickly got in the two all-important questions for a glorified extra like myself. "So what do I do? And do I have a name?"

He vaguely waved in the direction of the brightly lit compound. "Mr. Lackey can fill you in."

Right. So I quickly joined the others in the lit compound where all the cameras were. And I was happy to see two lines of men in varied, although mostly American uniforms. They must be my colleagues no doubt - my fellow heroes!

It wasn't exactly an all-star cast. I mean, I've been around long enough in the studios to know the big people. The only one I recognized on sight here was the dark-haired guy at the head of the line. He was wearing a leather jacket and a crush cap. I believe I had seen him a few times on the Donna Reed Show.

"Ah, there is Hero Number Six." The man in casual clothes walking towards me had to be Mr. Lackey himself.

"Yes sir! Reporting for duty, sir!" I snapped off a smart salute that drew a few sniggers from the double line of my colleagues, but Mr. Lackey unfortunately didn't seem impressed.

"Good to see you. Now we can get started."

I nodded eagerly. "What do I do?"

"Here." Mr. Lackey took a package from a hovering aide and deposited it in my hands. "When I give you the go-ahead, you're going to sneak between the barracks towards the fence over there. You move with lightning speed - but with stealth! Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Aim for the section of the fence that's illuminated. There's a little mark on the ground there to guide you. As you approach the fence - quickly! - you throw the package in a backhand throw over the fence. Like this." He demonstrated the movement without the package. "Then you take hold of the bottom of the fence, lift it up, roll under it, pick up the package and disappear in the bushes beyond. Got it?"

"Got it," I confirmed.

"Good. Then let's get these cameras rolling. Take one!"

I was put in my starting position, and that's when the agony began. For starters, that backhand throw was a real pain in the shoulder. Maybe Mr. Lackey was an avid cricket player, but I'm more into soccer and baseball. It took me a grand total of forty-three tries to throw that package over the fence in a satisfactory manner, and with each time Mr. Lackey called for a premature cut, I feared more for my first role as a hero.

But I managed it at last, and fortunately, the next leg of the escape I mastered a lot quicker, even if I did get caught in the barbed wire a few times. (Can you believe they used actual barbed wire on the set?!) And into the bushes I dived, and, "Cut!"

"That'll do. Now your next scene." I was to race through the undergrowth with my package clutched to my chest, and at a particular bush I was to trip and fall face down in the dirt. So much for being a hero... But I decided it was worth it - after all, heroes need to get in trouble first in order to show that they're real heroes by getting out of it with the elan of a star. At least I wasn't getting killed yet. I hoped.

The fall took some two dozen takes to perfect as well, and I'm telling you my wrists and knees were getting pretty sore. Running around in a dark forest tripping on command is not quite my idea of a glamorous hero role. Then again, of course I was only Hero Number Six. I shouldn't expect too much glamour - surely that would be reserved for Hero Number One, whoever he was.

But things were looking up. The thing I had had such trouble tripping over turned out to be one of the regulars of the show - a lanky young guy I recalled seeing on Gomer Pyle. Plus I got a few lines to say - yay!

We rehearsed our lines and actions a couple of times, and I was happy to learn that I suddenly got a name, too: I was to be Sergeant Olsen, the outside man, whatever that meant. And the bare compound from which I had escaped was meant to be a POW camp in Nazi Germany. Oh well, who am I to question my employers' taste?

Before I move on though, I have a confession to make. I'm scared of dogs. Like _really_ scared. Especially those huge German shepherds. Of course I had realized from the one page script I now held that there were to be dogs in this scene, but... believe me, these were giant monster dogs! I stayed only just long enough to squeak out my last line, and then I literally fled into the woods. Let the Gomer Pyle guy deal with that vicious canine menace - I was out of here!

I heard Mr. Lackey yelling after me to take a few hours' break, but to stay on the site because they still needed me, but at that point I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't exactly behave like the hero I was supposed to be. I just wanted to get out. Get away from those killer dogs. So I kept running through the dark woods (and tripping of course - it had gotten to be a habit apparently), until I suddenly came to an unmetalled road. With a swerving light approaching not twenty meters away from me. A flashlight?

No. The light faded, and a lovely blond girl got off her bicycle. "Hello there," she addressed me. "I believe I saw you back there at the camp. You're Hero Number Six, aren't you?"

"Right." I puffed out my chest in pride. "Sergeant... um..." I frowned. Darn it, I didn't even have a first name! So I settled for, "Sergeant Olsen at your service, madame."

She chuckled. "I'm Helga, the Kommandant's secretary. On my way home, because secretaries are not supposed to work nights." She eyed me curiously. "So what are you doing all the way out here? It could be dangerous out here. Maybe you should go back to camp."

"But I'm supposed to be the outside man!" I protested. Never would I confess to a lady that I had merely run from the dogs...

"Oh." She looked me over. "Well, I guess you can come with me for now. I can take you to Oskar's until it's time for you to return to camp."

She wasn't making any sense to me, but anything was better than going back to those vicious killer dogs. So I walked her home - after all, I may be happily married and all, but walking a pretty girl home after dark is innocent enough, isn't it?

Only it turned out she didn't take me home at all. Instead, she offloaded me on a grumpy old vet by the name of Oskar Schnitzer, who - believe it or not - had a kennel full of giant German shepherd dogs! Talk about going from the frying pan into the fire...

"Who's this?" the old man grunted when he saw me.

"This is Sergeant Olsen," Helga explained. "He's Hero Number Six. The outside man, remember?"

The old man looked me over.

"Can he stay with you until he's needed back at the camp?" Helga asked.

"I suppose so. According to the script, I'm the one who's going to bring him back anyway." The old man spat out some tobacco juice. "Are you good with dogs, young man?"

I felt the colour rush to my face. "I'm afraid not, sir."

He gave me a disdainful look. "Well, let's hope you'll soon be an inside man then."

I fervently hoped so, too. Anything to stay clear from those horrible dogs. Instead, I got to monitor his underground radio, which was a dreadfully boring job, I tell you. Its only advantage was that it kept me at a safe distance from the howling hounds in the kennel.

As I said, the job was totally boring. Nothing happened - no message, no call, nothing. I totally lost track of the time - until that mysterious message came through.

 _"E.T. phone home. E.T. phone home, please."_

That was it: _"E.T. phone home. E.T. phone home, please."_

In a rush of excitement, I jotted down the words, and waited a few minutes with baited breath to see if any follow-up message would come through. But all remained quiet again, so I rushed upstairs and showed the message to the old vet.

He raised his eyebrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I shrugged.

"Well, you're the hero, aren't you?"

I felt a little petulant. "Well, I'm only Hero Number Six. I'm just a glorified extra - I know nothing."

He gave me an odd look. "I bet you don't."

The message remained a mystery, and I just returned to my boring post at the radio.

But pretty soon afterward, the old vet came to get me. "I've been told to take you back to Stalag 13 now."

Ah, finally some action again. This hero was ready for it!

I followed the old doc upstairs and out to his truck. But imagine my shock and dismay when he opened the back of his truck and motioned for me to hop in - and I found myself jumping into an overcrowded dog kennel!

I couldn't fall back out of that truck fast enough, believe me!

"What are you doing?" the old vet asked with annoyance evident in his voice.

My teeth chattered, but I managed to get out a very determined, "I'm _not_ riding in the back with those monsters!"

"Yes, you are. That's how the episode is written. It's in the script, see?"

"Well, whoever wrote this episode should die! I'm not bunking with those monsters!" I declared.

"Oh, come on." The old man sighed. "Don't be such a ninny. You're in Allied uniform - you'll be alright. They'll be like pussycats, I promise."

"No."

"Just don't show them that you're scared and you'll be fine."

I kept shaking my head. "I'm not getting in there. I mean..." I gulped. "I'm just Hero Number Six - I'm expendable! I'm the guy who gets hired to get killed before the first commercial, just to prove that the situation is serious! I'm not getting in there to be eaten alive by a bunch of bloodhounds, no matter what the script says!"

The old vet regarded me with a funny look on his face. "Well, in that case..." He took out a small bottle from one of his inside pockets while I nervously babbled on.

"I mean, I'm not even important enough for a first name! Even my last name was made up on the spot. I'm nobody, I'm expendable, I'm..." I burst out coughing. The mean old vet had pulled back my head in an amazingly quick move and poured something from that little bottle down my throat. I felt it burn its way down my body, and when the coughing spasms finally ceased, I wheezed, "What was that?" I had to wipe the tears from my eyes.

"Oh..." Nonchalantly, the old man screwed the cork back on the little bottle and put it away. "Just an old family remedy. Originally, it was invented by a little old lady from Leningrad. It's supposed to cure anything from the common cold to paralyzing paranoia."

Another cough forced its way out of my lungs. "I see."

"Now get into that truck before we're going to mess up the entire filming schedule."

Whatever the infamous family remedy did, it sure did make me meekly climb into the back of the truck and take my place among the canine terror monsters.

And what followed was pure horror.

As the doc had said, "Don't be scared and you'll be fine."

Yeah, right. But I dare say that when I'm facing half a dozen terrifying killer dogs in an enclosed room of maybe three cubic meters, I'm too frightened to be scared. And boy, did those bloody dogs smell that...

Did I say bloody? Well, they didn't quite get that far. Fortunately for me, the ride lasted but a few minutes - but they were the scariest minutes of my life, I tell you! Then the truck jerked to a halt, the door was pulled open and out I spilled in a furry tangle of dogs.

It turned out we were back in the bare compound between the wooden barracks, where I had started out my first job as a hero. Helpful hands pulled me to my feet and shoved me into the line of military men (my co-heroes) in front of the barracks. (Gee, had they been standing there all that time?)

As the commotion played out, the guy standing next to me winked at my semi-bare chest. The dogs had shredded my shirt in the few minutes I had been in the back of the truck, and I was seriously wondering what my insurance representative would have said, had I been forced to bunk with those killers for a minute longer.

But this guy in his long blue overcoat just chuckled. "I see you've managed to get your shirt off, eh? Well, I suppose it's one way of securing your part on the show. It never hurts to have a good-looking hunk among us to glue the ladies to the screen. Anything for the ratings, right?"

Wrong.

In that very moment, I realized that I didn't want to be a hero anymore. When you've gone through the horrors I've been through today, you really begin to realize it's the simple things in life you treasure. Like having a loving wife. A family. Friends. A home. Enough money to pay the bills and put food on the table. I didn't need to be hero - it was too nerve-wrecking.

Let my buddy Roy take my part on this show. I'd rather get killed before the first commercial and be done with it.

 **.**

 **The End**


End file.
